


Homebodies

by menagerie



Series: Annabelle [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Play, Bathing/Washing, Butt Plugs, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub, Enemas, F/F, Femslash, Incest, Mommy Dom, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Oral Sex, Paddling, Parent/Child Incest, Pussy Spanking, Restraints, Service Submission, Spanking, Submission, Vaginal Fingering, Vibrators, clit torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-13 23:47:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20591117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menagerie/pseuds/menagerie
Summary: Sometimes Mommy and Annabelle like to have a nice, domestic night to themselves.





	Homebodies

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably the tamest smut I've ever written. Don't worry; hardcore filth is coming soon. Annabelle is probably underage in this one, so. Heads up if that makes you uncomf.

Oftentimes Mommy and I have nice, simple nights at home; just the two of us.

These are the nights I like the very best. When she gets home from work at the diner, and I run to greet her at the door, throwing my arms around her waist; resting my face on her shoulder.

“Hey, Annie-girl,” she’ll say, and hold me for a long time, sometimes swaying, sometimes stroking my hair, sometimes slumping into me. 

“Sit,” I’ll suggest, and ease her into the recliner. I’ll bend and untie her shoes, greasy-soled from the slippery kitchens, and set them outside. “Do you want a drink?”

If it’s hot outside, a tall glass of ice water hits the spot. Sometimes I doctor it up with an orange slice or a maraschino cherry, just to make her smile. If it’s a cold or rainy day, she prefers a mug of tea. I bring that, and some toast with butter, and her nighttime medication. 

I’ll put a record on the gramophone; Benny Goodman, or Glenn Miller, or Billie Holiday. 

I usually rush home from school every day to tidy and get dinner in the oven, but she arrives shortly after I do, so it’s a while until dinner is ready. I stop to see if she wants a snack, or just to watch television.

“Maybe I just want to see my little girl,” she’ll say with a warm purr in her voice, and I’m filled head to toe with happy sparkles. I shift foot to foot, hands clasped behind me.

“You can see me now, Mommy,” I’ll say shyly, smiling down at my toes.

“Mm. Maybe I want to see some more of you. Strip, Annie-girl. Position A, please.”

I do, smiling all the while. I remove each article of clothing, fold them, and set them aside, until I stand naked before my mother. She sips her drink and trails her eyes all over me; my face, my breasts, my middle, my princess parts, which are kept shaved to meet her high standards.

When she’s had a good look, I take Position A, squatting before her chair with my knees spread wide, my palms pressed to the back of my head.  
  
Mommy leans forward in her seat, cupping my breasts. Her palms always match the drink she’s been holding, causing my nipples to expand or tighten from hot or cold. She’ll massage my chest for a while before sitting back; lifting her drink, resting her feet on my thighs. 

We keep lotion in the same drawer as we keep the TV remote. I happily massage her feet; gently, bearing mind to her arthritis, but firm enough to make her sigh. I get lost in pleasing her; in bringing her comfort. Let her need nobody else in the world but me.

“What a good girl you are,” she’ll murmur, and it feels like all the world is warmth and love.

When the oven beeps, I stand and wash my hands and set the table. Sometimes I’m permitted to sit while we eat; sometimes not; but either way I’m never allowed clothes during supper. She wants me as naked as possible during our nights together. It keeps me in a submissive headspace; reminds me that my body is hers to command. 

I wash the dishes like that, too, and carry my other chores out in such a fashion. It makes it feel intimate; sexy; to walk about the house performing each task with my body on display for Mommy’s hungry eyes.

Inevitably, she’ll catch me as I’m carrying things to the recycling bin outside, or taking sheets to the washing machine. “Annabelle,” she’ll command. “Over my lap now.”  
  
I’ll assume the wheelbarrow position: my hips on Mommy’s lap, my legs hanging over the arms of the recliner, my chest pressed to the floor. My thighs are open, a leg on each side of her waist, so that she can see deep into my bottom and princess parts; not a single secret left private.

Often, then, she’ll give me my first spanking of the night; a light punishment for a small misdeed, perhaps, or simply because it brings her great pleasure to strike my bottom and watch the cheeks jiggle; the color darken. I relish in the sting; the sexy burn that makes my princess parts flush and swell and drip. Being so submissive, so owned, by this powerful woman makes me so wet I’m downright slippery.

Mommy collects my dew on her fingertips, sometimes tasting, sometimes spreading as she rubs. I coo and moan in bliss as her thumb circles my clittie, the fingers of her left hand pressing and twisting and crooking inside my hole. “Mommy,” I’ll sigh. “Oh Mommy, that feels so, _ so _ good…”  
  
If she wants to make me cum right away, she’ll take out a vibrator and tease me with it; perhaps fucking my pussy with it, other times slipping it into my bottom before she presses it to my clittie. She knows exactly how to make me squirt all over the place, helpless and pathetic as a baby.

If she wants it to take longer, I’m instead penetrated by a dildo; fucked slowly on glass or silicone. She watches with hungry eyes as my pussy or bottom swallows anything she pushes inside.

“Such slutty little holes,” she’ll hum, perhaps giving my clittie a sharp spank to remind me to show _ some _ decorum. “My baby girl is _ such _ a filthy whore. I’ll need to clean you out so you can be a good girl again.”

“Only for you, Mommy,” I’ll gasp, trying to thrust my hips back onto her every ministration. “All for you.”

If she doesn’t let me cum at all, instead pushing me back to the floor to kneel at her feet, I’ll lift her skirt or unbutton her jeans. I undress her reverently; my Mommy, my queen. Sometimes she allows the process to linger; other times she grabs me by the hair and shoves my face into her pussy.

Either way, I am a greedy and willing slave, kissing and sucking and licking and fingering her pussy, sloppy and greedy, like a pig in a trough. Her moans and thrusts are music to my ears.

* * *

We used to use the regular enema hose, but a while back, she bought me a tunnel plug; similar to a butt plug, but hollow all the way through. She can insert the enema hose directly into that, or pour any number of other liquids inside me too, with nothing more than a steady hand and a pitcher. When I’m full to her satisfaction, there’s a rubber “cork” she can then block the tunnel with.  
  
I love kneeling in the bathtub, my hips raised, the door behind me wide open, listening to my mother shuffle around in the kitchen, filling her pitcher. If there’s a clink-rattle of ice cubes, I know I’m in for some tummy cramping. If I hear the microwave, I know I’m in for something nice and warm.  
  
She comes in, sometimes with a wooden spoon to give my pussy lips and upper thighs a paddling, and then I either feel the plastic tube of the enema hose lowered through my plug, or she grips my hips and spits directly into my hole, preceding whatever she pours in there.  
  
If she pours, it’s often so rapid that my tummy cramps painfully. If it’s the tube, she’s using an enema bag, which is so large I end up cramping anyway as I struggle to hold all the liquid inside myself. This only grows more difficult as she resumes paddling me, or she teases me with yet another vibrator, causing my hips to buck; the liquid inside me to slosh. 

Unless I’m being punished, however (in which case she’ll spank, repeatedly and directly, onto my clittie), I’m not forced to retain my enema for too terribly long.  
  
She stoppers my tunnel plug, helps me stand, and guides me to the toilet, where I have to remove my plug and expel my enema as she watches. Shame makes my face burn if my bottom makes any smells or noises, but I know this is how it must be. If I am to belong body and soul to my mother, I can’t have any secrets, any privacy, from her. Not even in private moments like this.  
  
I wipe myself off and she makes me stand and bend to inspect me for cleanliness. Only once did I not pass, and it had been humiliating enough to make me extra careful forever.  
  
We repeat this two or three times, with other enemas, other solutions. Saline or coffee, yogurt or soap; it all depends on the effects she’s going for. Depending on her mood, she either brings me to another orgasm through a vibrator, or through spanking my clittie so hard I have no choice but to cum, screaming all the while.  
  
She gives me my bath after that, as I sprawl in the tub still panting and fatigued. She washes my hair and my skin and between my legs with careful efficiency, often soaping out my bottom and private parts to make good and certain I’m squeaky clean.  
  
She lets the water drain and helps me to my feet, bundling me in a towel and hugging me close. I’m her good girl, she reminds me; she’s only so hard on me so I can achieve my best potential. I only nod and hold her while she combs and dries my hair, grateful to be so cared for.  
  
She dresses me in my pajamas; a pair of footie pajamas she’d had custom made with several specifications. There’s a flap in the back she can unsnap any time for easy access to my bottom, and the two zippers that rise up the inside of the right leg meet in the middle, allowing a padlock to be threaded through the two holes of both, dangling between my legs. Mommy wears the key, so I can’t take it off by myself.  
  
Just before zipping me in to my flannel prison, Mommy liberally slicks my princess parts with Icy Hot, paying special attention to my clittie and inner labia. Sometimes my nipples, too. I fight my tears, and I do the best I can, but after a while the tears come just the same. I sniffle and moan at the pain my poor little pussy is experiencing.  
  
If I cry too loud, Mommy unsnaps the bottom flap of my pajamas and uses a wooden spoon to give me another sound spanking -- a long one as I bend against the doorjamb and cry into the wood paneling. I know I have no say in what Mommy does to me. She knows best. She knows how to make sure I’m a good little girl.  
  
Once my bottom has been blistered by Mommy’s spoon, she covers my it back up and leads me to my bedroom, where I’m tucked into bed. Mommy always straps my hands and ankles to the head and footboards with soft velcro restraints every night, so I don’t touch myself or get out of bed without her permission. My actions and orgasms are hers to control.  
  
We say our goodnights as she pulls the blankets over me. If I was a good girl, she tells me so. If I did anything naughty, she explains it in detail. She turns on my nightlight and turns off the lamp, and leaves me to go about the rest of her evening. 

However long it takes me to fall asleep, I am immobilized in my own bed, with no way to alleviate my Icy Hot-coated princess parts. Squirm as I might, cry as I might, it’s just me, the darkness, and pain. 

What choice did I have but to teach myself that I like it this way? It was either that, or succumbing to insanity.

I am a _ good _girl.


End file.
